Tokwa, or more widely known as Tofu—a food that holds more than its sweet bland taste to me.
This food has a special place in my heart. It holds a beloved memory. A story of its own.
Every morning, when I was younger, my uncle, whom was a taho vendor, leaves a cup of taho—a food made of softened tokwa and arnibal, for me before going outside the neighborhood to sell the rest of his taho for the day. Sometimes, when my uncle didn't sell any taho to get some rest, I bought some instead from our neighbors who also made taho for a living. It was a regular routine, like eating lunch or supper. If there was a day I wouldn't consider normal, those were the days when I didn't eat taho.
The leftover tokwa from making taho was also something I enjoyed regularly. As frequent as a single time in a week, my grandmother would prepare taho as our dish for lunch and supper.
Tokwa was a flexible food, it could absorb almost any flavor and could taste any way you want. My grandmother could try it out with many different recipes and I'd still never get tired of it.
Tokwa was my comfort food, my all-time favorite, my home.
It holds everything I've adored and treasured when I was a child. All the good memories I'd never dare to forget, all the bliss I experienced when I was younger.
I don't eat as much tokwa now. My uncle rarely makes taho now, unlike in the past. My grandmother doesn't cook me my favorite tokwa dish anymore. She's not here. Many things have changed.
Yet every time I get the chance to eat my favorite food again, the memories come back like the sun at sunrise, as fresh and clear as it was.
Until now tokwa still brings me an unexplainable sense of comfort and safety, similar to the feeling you get at home.
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